Tears of a Whore
by Nerikla
Summary: Jack Kelly always knew that, one day, his past would come back to haunt him.  Third chapter posted: The letter is read, a meeting is arranged, and Boots begins to play an important role in everyone's destiny.
1. The Note

**Tears of a Whore**

_**Chapter One:**_The Note

- - - - - -

_Heavy breathing – was it his own?_

In, out,_ he thought, counting every time he inhaled and exhaled. Every breath was another moment alive. It was blissful, life; how had he never known this, how had he always taken it for granted? How had he never realized how wonderful it was to simply exist?_

_He waited for the footsteps to come to a rest on the other side of the door, waited for the betraying creak of the floorboards. He had known that this moment would come but he had never suspected that it would come so soon. He had even prepared a little speech for it. When they caught him, strung him up, he would look at them defiantly and say, _For Chrissakes, officer, I'm just a _boy._

_He felt a warm sensation run down his leg and realized he'd pissed himself. He was more annoyed than embarrassed at his body's betrayal – how would they take him seriously if he reeked of urine?_

- - - - - -

This story begins, and ends, with a whore.

Not just any whore, Mush will tell anyone who'll listen; a beautiful whore, a fairy-tale princess, locked in an inescapably tragic underworld. This, of course, is horrendously untrue; in the same breath, Racetrack will tell anyone who'll listen that the whore had missing teeth, sagging breasts, and that Mush never even laid eyes on the bitch, much less spoke to her.

He was the one who first had that honor, and he'll assure you that he wishes he'd never crossed paths with that woman, wished he'd never tried to sell a paper on Franklin Street. Strategically, the street seems the perfect territory for work. It's narrow but open and there is heavy traffic flow at lunch time; it's also near the races, just a hop skip and a jump away, so if business is bad, a quick tip or two can liven things considerably. The bulls rarely make their way so far to the borders of Manhattan, and even if they do, it's only to grab coffee at the next street over.

On that fateful Monday, Racetrack had been having difficulty selling his papers. This fact was distressing as the previous night had brought heavy losses due to a bad tip. He was slightly hung over, having spent his last nickel on enough alcohol to render a larger man unconscious. In fact, he looked like shit, but generally he found that this condition helped him to sell papers.

It wasn't that his voice was too soft, or that he was allowing his aching head to get in the way of his work. That would have been unprofessional, and as all the Manhattan newsboys knew, Racetrack was all business when it came to selling.

No, it was the fact that down the street, a woman was crying.

Wailing, really. Screaming in agony, doubled over on the street, pounding the cobblestones. This display would have been distressing to any passerby. Racetrack watched in frustration as potential customers simply passed Franklin Street, choosing to walk down the next to avoid this little tantrum.

Racetrack didn't give a rat's ass about what this woman was crying about. More out of concern for his own pocket than out of concern for her affairs, he sighed, lit a cigarette, and began to sidle over to where she lay, sobbing.

"Pardon me, miss," the newsboy said, tipping his hat for, after all, this was a lady, "are ya alright?"

The woman gave another heart-felt sob and looked upwards. Racetrack nearly kicked himself for failing to observe her clothing; this hangover, it seemed, was preventing him from using his head. Her dress was poorly made and pushed her breasts upwards indecently. In this compromising position, she was exposing a fair bit of ankle. Her face was streaked by tears that ran in rivers through her makeup, blending black kohl and tan together, leaving a horrendous mess behind. She might have been thirty, or maybe a bit younger. He'd never been so repulsed by a woman before.

A whore, he growled inwardly, and immediately turned to see if her pimp was nearby. Likely as not, he was going to get thrown around for bothering the whore while she was working. Might as well convince her to be quiet while the pimp was still watching, in a last ditch effort to settle this affair without bloodshed.

"No," she sniffled, rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. This was a mistake because it caused her makeup to smudge further still, giving her the appearance of someone who'd been smacked around, "do I _look_ alright, ya stupid prick?"

This seemed a remarkably unkind way to address the first person who had acknowledged her distress. After a beat, and a long drag on his cigarette, Racetrack decided to get right down to business.

"As one professional t'another, miss, you're scarin' away customers."

The prostitute glared up at him with dull hatred, which he shrugged off without apology. She gathered her skirts and stood hastily, abruptly, indignance on every line of her unpleasant face. They stood staring at each other for a moment. The whore was taller by several inches, and after a long pause, spat in Racetrack's face.

The boy was shocked. For a moment, unsuspecting, he had shown this in his expression. He would never have taken this insult from a man; no, if even his best friend had spat in his face, Racetrack would not have hesitated to swing a fist back and sock him in the mouth. But this was a _woman_, even if she was only a whore. He'd never had much experience with the fairer sex. He had no idea how to handle this sort of insult.

Slowly, he reached a dirty hand to his cheek and wiped off the spittle. He rubbed the saliva on his pants, and said, very softly, "What the hell was that for?"

"Doan' you act like you can tell me what ta do," the whore snarled.

Racetrack blinked. Mentally he was tallying up the circumstances; being spat at openly, in the street, would cause potential customers to think he was some sort of pervert. He'd have to find another selling spot, a right pain in the ass this close to lunch. If he moved any further south, he would be stepping on Skittery's toes, and the other boy had always been extremely territorial. Of course, every moment that he waited around here meant that he was giving this woman's pimp an open look at his face. He wouldn't go without serving some sort of retribution for attempting to be a Good Samaritan.

And this, he reminded himself sternly, was why he never did good deeds. They always came back around to bite him in the ass.

"I just wanted ta see why ya were cryin'," he said defensively, trying to smile pleasantly. It was a last ditch attempt to get on the whore's good side – maybe she could put a good word in for him with her pimp. Racetrack's head was already aching and he didn't think a new shiner would improve matters much.

The whore seemed to like this genteel approach. She reached between her breasts – Racetrack could only watch in admiration – and withdrew a crumpled piece of paper. She unfolded it carelessly, extending the sheet outward. They both stared at the writing without comprehension.

"D'ya knows anyone named Francis Sullivan?" she asked, suddenly sweet. This change in mood immediately put the newsboy on the defensive, though he managed to make himself look pleased. Flattery, of any form, made his skin crawl.

"Francis Sullivan?" Racetrack repeated, thinking hard, "naw, doan' think so."

"He's a newsie," the whore simpered, sizing him up, "ain't you one, too?"

As he was carrying a stack of newspapers under his arm, he thought that this point had been relatively obvious. However, whores weren't known for their intelligence. He took a final drag from his cigarette and dropped it, putting it out with a definitive stamp of his shoe. The woman seemed to be awaiting some sort of answer, so he resisted the urge to roll his eyes and nodded briefly.

"Give this to 'im," she begged, thrusting the bit of paper at him. He noticed that this movement caused her breasts to bulge, "please. Find 'im. Ask around for me?"

Racetrack hid a scowl and took the piece of paper. He couldn't read, but he would never admit this fact to a whore. He put the paper in his front pocket, ready to begin naming his terms. In Manhattan, nothing came for free.

"What's in it fer me?" he asked, arching an eyebrow. His poker face had always been excellent; he held it in place, even as he heard heavy footsteps falling behind him. Racetrack turned, furious with himself for getting into this position. If he kept cool, perhaps he'd be able to walk away from this.

The man who walked towards them was heavy-set. His arms put the muscles of the Delancey brothers to shame. He had a receding hairline, a broad jaw and unsettlingly intelligent eyes. He looked familiar, for some reason, though Racetrack was sure he'd never seen the pimp before. He had never been to a whorehouse; rather than gambling on diseased love, the boy had always preferred to stick to cards. They were cleaner and gave him more pleasure.

"Please help me," The whore whispered. The request seemed so genuine that it almost made Racetrack turn and look at her; it appeared the pimp hadn't heard, for a moment later, the newsboy found himself being suspended in the air by two hands clamping his arms to his body. His newspapers fell from beneath his arm, scattering haphazardly on the cobblestones.

Well, there went any possibility of dinner.

The pimp looked him up and down, smirking. "This runt givin' you trouble, Chastity?"

Chastity? What a name. It would have been amusing if the circumstances weren't so troubling. Racetrack considered his options. He could try to kick this man in the face, aiming to break his nose, but then he was sure that this pimp would have a personal vendetta against him. Racetrack knew that these street pimps generally worked for much for powerful men, ones who waited down by the docks, preferring to keep their hands clean during the day. He didn't want to attract any such attention – it would only mean trouble.

Another option was to talk his way out of this. At the moment, dangling from the pimp's arms, it seemed a ludicrous hope. However, he'd talked himself out of far worse predicaments before.

His last option was to accept this cruel twist of fate and be beaten into a pulp.

The whore, it seemed, had an odd view of loyalty. She'd just a begged a favor from Racetrack but seemed content to save her own unworthy self. She fluttered her eyelashes at the pimp, baring her molding teeth in an unattractive smile. "Trouble? Naw. I c'n take care o' meself."

Racetrack thought that silence might be wisest at this point, though he did wriggle a bit, grimacing at the painful way that those hands dug into his flesh. He was firmly pinned.

"Ya listen ta me, runt," the pimp snarled, putting his face closer, "ya gonna pay fer your time with my girl?"

This was an absurd question, but Racetrack chose to answer honestly. "No, sir."

He found himself being shaken roughly. He was unceremoniously slammed into the nearest wall. His head caught against the bricks and he shouted out without meaning to, a cry of surprised pain. The next blow came slowly and he managed to move his head in time, though his shoulders were still pressed against the wall. He kicked out with his foot in a dirty attempt to kick the man in the balls. This wasn't a fair fight and Racetrack was no fool. He knew the odds weren't in his favor, and he knew that the best way out of a tight spot often involved a little cheating.

His foot connected. The grasp on his shoulders relaxed, just for a moment, but it was enough. He sprang free and ran wildly, arms flailing. He sped across the cobblestones, wincing as they jarred his bones, sprinting faster than he'd thought himself capable of. Racetrack didn't turn to see if the man was pursuing him, but he also didn't hear any footsteps behind him.

It was hard to justify leaving his newspapers behind. His hangover had left, blissfully, replaced by fear and a rush of adrenaline that dizzied his senses. He dodged into back alleyways, nearly knocking over passerby. As he ran, he chose his route strategically, choosing an uncommon way to get to Tibby's. It would take a while to reach the restaurant, but he was fit enough, and he wasn't about to turn and look back.

Racetrack ran as though the devil was on his heels – and, to some degree, he was right to run so quickly.

The devil took a terrifyingly physical form in New York.

- - - - - -

(**Author's Note:** Alright, I've made up my mind to write a story with many chapters, and one that I will update! I have big plans for this story – and, I swear, I really will do my best to keep the chapters coming.

Next chapter will feature Tibby's and further plot mischief. 'Til then, let me know if you have any suggestions/what you think!)


	2. Messy Business

**Tears of a Whore**

_**Chapter Two:**_Messy Business

- - - - - -

"_Try it, Sullivan," he suggested, not without a hint of contempt, "or are ya _scared_?"_

"_I ain't scared," the shorter boy replied indignantly, crossing his arms. It wasn't fair to make such a request of him; if he was ever ratted on or exposed in such a compromising position, he'd be skinned alive, no questions asked. Last night's scare had reminded him just how dearly he valued his own hide._

"_I think you're just chicken."_

"_No. That's not it. It's just my Pa said – "_

"_Yeah?" A laugh. "Well, your Pa says a lotta things, kid, most of 'em untrue. Or have ya not noticed that he's full of shit?"_

- - - - - -

Tibby's was unusually full for a Monday. Newsboys were everywhere, cluttering up booths and chairs, leaving the owner aghast with their mess and their noise. In the back corner, Jack wolfed down a sandwich, scooping up the lettuce that spilled onto the table and eating that as an after thought. He was so focused on his food that he only half-listened to the tale coming from Snoddy. The rest of the nearby boys were hanging onto every word.

"So I'm tellin' this lady about how hungry I am," Snoddy continued, grinning, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table, "an' she looks at me, real sad, an' hands me a fuckin' dollar!"

Snorts of derision greeted this proclamation.

"You're full of shit," Kid Blink suggested, rolling his eyes. As an after thought, he knocked Snoddy's elbows off of the table, muttering something about bad manners.

The challenged newsboy raised his eyebrows, smirking, "You callin' me a liar, Blink?"

"Callin' you somethin' like that," he replied conversationally, making it a point to lick some mayonnaise off of one of his ink-stained fingers. He appeared relatively unconcerned with this progression in their verbal exchange.

"Well," Snoddy asked, standing and pulling something out of his pocket, "whaddya call _this_, then?"

More than one boy moved out of the way, suspecting that the brandished object was likely to be a knife. Snoddy grinned at this reaction – he was well known for carrying a switchblade wherever he went – and held up the coin between his thumb and his forefinger. The dollar coin gleamed, beautiful as a sunset to their greedy eyes, and for a moment a hushed reverence descended upon their corner of the room.

For once, it appeared that the boy hadn't been lying. A number of newsboys scrambled closer to get a better look. Snoddy held the coin high above their heads, suddenly territorial.

"So, does this mean you'se gonna pay me back those two bits from last night?" Jack asked, giving the boy an overly hearty slap on the back. He didn't want to dampen the mood, but he felt like someone needed to smack some sense into the dumb kid's head. Brandishing a dollar coin in public view? It was an idiotic move at best, but then, Snoddy had always been shortsighted. He would wager that Snoddy wouldn't sleep easily tonight; until the newly wealthy boy found a better hiding spot for his money, his mind would be riveted on the possibility of theft. He would lie awake wondering which one of his friends would get sticky fingers first.

Blink took this opportunity to wash down his mayonnaise with a swish of Jack's beer. As he replaced the mug quietly on the table, he noticed a familiar figure stagger through the door. He stood on the seat of the booth, waving a friendly hand to indicate where there was an available chair.

"Took ya long enough, Racetrack. We thought you was dead, or worse!" Blink called out with a grin.

Racetrack walked over unsteadily, panting. His face was red and his hair clung to his head in a peculiar fashion; sweat and an odd-colored pomade stuck his hair up wildly in the back, and it didn't take spectacular vision to notice that there was something distinctly off about his appearance. He carried his hat in his hands, fanning himself with it, wheezing like an old man.

"What's worse than bein' dead, ya moron?" he managed to ask with an attempt at a smirk.

"Bein' your sorry ass, for starters."

Jack watched his friend's arrival with concern. Summing up the circumstances, he waved Mush off of a nearby stool and gave him a pointed look. Mush frowned, more in concern at his friend's odd condition than annoyance, and let Racetrack take his seat. He stood behind the boy, taking a good look at the back of his head.

It was caked in dried blood.

"Who did a number on ya, Race?" Mush demanded immediately.

Everyone craned to get a good look at the damage, impressed. In fact, the general opinion seemed to be amazement that Racetrack had made it back from his selling spot without collapsing into an alleyway.

The injured boy seemed to want none of this attention. He turned and gave his friend a warning glare that he swiftly regretted as the sudden movement caused the room to swim before his eyes. "None of your damned business."

This dismissal was enough to cause most of the boys standing around to lose interest. Lunchtime was nearly over; the evening edition would be out soon enough, and besides, there was still time to sell whatever papers they still had leftover from the morning beat.

Mush begged a glass of water and a napkin from a waiter. Ignoring his friend's protests and curses, he peeled the dark, matted hair back to get a good look at the wound.

"I'll clean it up myself!" Racetrack snarled.

"Oh, cause you can reach behind yer own big head?" Mush asked with a smile, shaking his own curly one, "I doan' think so, Race. Stop bein' a little girl, we gotta clean the cut."

With gentle hands, he continued to disregard his friend's colorful threats. It wasn't the first time he had helped one of his friends clean a wound, and it also wasn't the first time he'd had to do so despite hearty resistance.

Jack offered the other half of his sandwich to his injured friend in a shockingly noble gesture. He watched, puzzled, as Racetrack attempted to eat it, nearly missing his mouth each time he lifted the bread.

"Who did this?" Jack asked casually, trying to catch him off-guard.

Racetrack swore loudly, not in response to the question, but in response to a particularly heartless jab at his wound. He looked as though he was going to vomit.

"None of your business," he repeated stubbornly, his conviction considerably lessened by the pain.

"I think he has a concussion," Mush informed them just as conversationally, moving to get a good look at his friend's roaming eyes.

Racetrack found the energy to scowl. "And _I_ think you need to get outta my face," he threatened. He wasn't quite sure why his gut instinct was to refuse to share what had happened on Franklin Street. He supposed that he simply didn't want to get his friends involved in his business. He had always been able to take care of himself; he'd kept his debtors away from the Lodging House for this long, as well as collectors, and had never picked a fight that he couldn't weasel out of somehow. Sure, he'd gotten plenty of black eyes and even a broken arm as a reward for keeping his affairs to himself, but it made him feel secure to know that he didn't have to trust anyone else.

A newsboy had very few personal belongings. Rather than riches, or even stolen prizes, Racetrack had his pride.

Mostly, he supposed, he didn't want his friends to screw up his chances at a better life. He turned a healthy profit through gambling; he certainly didn't want to share this success, or its downsides, with the others. The less they knew, the less likely it was that they would fuck things up.

Well, he thought after a hard moment, maybe they'd be able to help this time. This wasn't the sort of affair that he was comfortable facing alone - however, true to form, he wasn't going to make it easy. He picked the sandwich back up, not noticing that his own head was tilted to the left. His whole body was leaning to the left, actually, so that he nearly fell off of his stool. Jack stood up and helped him into a spot in the booth. Racetrack's breathing had slowed by now, but it was shallow and irregular.

With the patience of a kindly father, Jack asked once again with surprising gentleness, "Who did this to you, Race?"

"A whore," Racetrack replied with a wild bark of laughter.

His three friends all looked at one another with varying levels of annoyance.

"A whore," Blink repeated flatly.

"Must've been one hell of a lay," Mush suggested half-heartedly.

Jack suspected that the only way to get a real answer would be to exploit Racetrack's considerable ego. It wouldn't be very kind, but it would be the only way to get an answer, and his fists were already itching for revenge. Besides, it was unsafe for the other boys when someone was trying to settle a score alone. Unsuspecting people got in the way and got hurt. It was wisest to keep track of all of the Manhattan boy's disputes, and safest, too.

He asked skeptically, "You let a girl soak ya?"

Blink couldn't suppress a snicker at the thought. This sound made Racetrack attempt to sit upright, glaring. He had to rest his hands on the table to remain in this position. Mush hovered over him, worried, wondering if he would be able to get his friend to take it easy tonight. Racetrack could walk, so he'd need to sell the evening edition, but if he insisted on going to the big card game in Queens tonight, Mush was going to slug him.

"Her pimp," Racetrack clarified, not so defeated as to withhold an insult, his chin hovering dangerously over the remains of the sandwich, "not the girl, you idiot."

Ah, that explained things some. Jack was still puzzled, but he was so pleased by the fact that one of Spot's boys hadn't been involved that he only briefly considered the possibility that Racetrack was lying. He'd never seen his friend at a whorehouse; in fact, most of the boys at the Lodging House joked that Racetrack was a virgin and had never even known a woman intimately. So why had he been trying to mess with a whore - in broad daylight, no less?

Mush looked infuriated. "Y'know better than to fuck with a pimp," he reminded his injured friend with a sigh, shaking his head in disgust, "that's messy business."

"I'd say it's messier with the whore," Blink snickered.

The four were nearly alone by now. Jack nodded in acknowledgement as several more boys shouted out their goodbyes and left the restaurant. It was odd to linger in Tibby's after lunch, and the sudden quietness made them all uneasy.

Racetrack didn't appear to want to discuss matters further, so they let it be. After the conversation meandered to more neutral topics – namely Snoddy's idiotic declaration– they noticed that their injured friend was nearly facedown on the table.

Mush elbowed him every so often to make sure he was awake. Every kid with half a brain knew that falling asleep after a blow to the head was unwise.

"Wouldya sell with Race for the rest of the day, Mush?" Jack requested tentatively. It would mean little profit for the both of them, but it'd be enough to keep a roof over their heads for the night. If worst came to worst, he would spot them money – he always did.

With a sigh, Mush agreed. "Ungrateful shit," he told Racetrack, who didn't appear to notice the comment. In fact, the boy hadn't been following the conversation very well at all. He was staring blankly at the empty beer mugs.

"Well, we'd better get goin' before Sleepin' Beauty passes out," Blink grinned, standing and helping his injured friend to his feet. He noticed with a sudden frown of concern that his jibe didn't provoke a reply.

They were halfway to the door before Racetrack spoke.

"Any of you bums know a Francis Sullivan?" he asked with a pathetic attempt at levity, his words slow.

Mush and Kid Blink shook their heads, nudging him along to the door. They looked heartened by their friend's attempt at an insult – his silence had been more concerning than his inability to walk straight.

They were close enough to the door that they didn't notice their leader's reaction to this off-hand question. His jaw slackened slightly, color draining from his tanned cheeks. Jack paused for a moment, shocked, regaining his composure when the door was opened and the entrance bells tinkled a goodbye.

Francis Sullivan? Had he heard Racetrack correctly?

There was no way that his friend – one of his best, his most trusted – knew anything about his past. Jack had ensured this, had covered all of his tracks.

It was simply impossible.

Was Race threatening him by telling him that he knew? Was he dangling Jack's old life before his eyes in a sick attempt at a joke? Or was there a more sinister connection, an unexpected one, the one that Jack had feared would catch up with him eventually?

Racetrack could hardly stand, much less purposefully deliver such a bombshell. In all the years that Jack had known him, the boy had always played his cards close to his chest, suspicious of everyone, even his closest friends. He would never toss out information so carelessly.

No, it had to have been an accident.

Still, he needed to make sure. There could be no slip ups, no liabilities. Spot always said that he wasn't tough enough on the Manhattan newsies; the Brooklyn newsboy had always taunted and mocked him, despised him, to be honest, for this weakness.

A true leader makes others fear him, Spot had said the last time they'd seen each other. Time to grow up, Jacky-boy.

It was time to be tough, time to protect his own. He needed to ensure above all else that no one would get hurt by this turn of events. Jack put his boys first; he always had, always would, no matter the consequences or circumstances. He believed in delivering the greatest good for the greatest number. That, to Jack, was justice.

He followed his friends out of the restaurant with a sunny smile. Jack put his hat back on his head, tilting it slightly, and slapped Mush on the shoulder.

"Tell ya what, Mush. I had a good mornin'. Want me to sell with Race?" he offered, pleased to see that Mush brightened at the prospect. Last night had been hard on the pockets for all of them.

Racetrack didn't appear to appreciate this treatment. "You'se ain't my mothers,' he reminded them darkly.

Jack closed a firm hand on the boy's arm, provoking a wince. The muscles there were bruised thanks to the pimp's unforgiving clasp. "C'mon, Race," he said softly, leading him away from the others, "I gotta talk to ya, anyway."

It _had_ to have been an accident, a coincidence. But Jack would take no chances.

He knew that there was far more at stake here than his own life.

It was time to grow up - Spot had said so, and he had been right.

No matter the consequences.

- - - - - -

(**Author's Note: **Ah, and the plot thickens. I really like this plotline for some reason – things should get interesting, very quickly. Let me know what you think!

The next chapter will take a little longer for me to post, but I assure you that I'm working on it now.

Also, thanks to PF for the encouragement!)


	3. Left Handed

**Tears of a Whore**

_**Chapter Three: **_Left-Handed

- - - - - -

_His parents were arguing again._

_He always hid in his bedroom while they fought. The thin walls did little to disguise the sound, but for some reason, he felt safer with the covers pulled over his head. He couldn't remember the last time they had gone to bed without shouting; he wondered idly if they loved each other anymore, or even if they had _ever_ loved each other. It certainly was difficult to remember a time when his mother had smiled in the presence of his father._

"_I need it. Give it to me, or so help me, I will _make_ you!"_ _his mother roared. She sounded so unhappy, so desperate; the pitiful quality of her voice made him tug his pillow closer to his head, trying to drown out the sound._

"_Don't be stupid. You know you don't need it."_

"_I do need it! Do you know why, Mark? Don't you know why?"_

_His father sighed. "Don't start with that bullshit again –"_

"_Because of you," she interrupted harshly, answering her own question. "_You_ made me this way." _

- - - - - -

It would have had taken far too much effort to tow Racetrack to Union Avenue; instead, Jack had settled on a more convenient selling spot, risking the slow post-lunchtime crowd by the fountain rather than his usual customers. Additionally, he didn't think it would be smart to take his friend so far from the Lodging House; if Racetrack passed out, the last thing Jack wanted to do was to drag him home. His shorter friend looked thin and wiry, but he weighed a surprising amount.

Rather than scaring away his friend with demands and accusations, Jack had chosen to wait an hour or so before mentioning what was on his mind. He sold casually, as best he could; he knew that Racetrack would be little help with hawking the papers, seeing as the kid could hardly stand. Jack had left his friend propped against the brick wall, a few feet to his right. To his own surprise, the boy hadn't moved since.

Keeping his friend conscious was beginning to be a right pain in the ass. At first he had forced conversation, but that had been unstimulating and seemed to annoy rather than pacify the other newsboy In an enlightened moment, Jack thought of a brilliant way to ensure that his friend stayed awake. He put two cigarettes in his mouth and lit them, passing one to Racetrack. The boy held out a hand for the cigarette and sloppily inhaled, muttering a thank you that was nearly incomprehensible.

Jack grinned in reply and took a hard drag, his stance was casual. Without looking back at his friend, he spoke what was on his mind, his eyes still scanning the crowd for potential customers.

"Why'd ya ask about Sullivan?" he asked nonchalantly.

With an obvious effort, Racetrack tried to focus. He sounded surprised. "Why? You know him or somethin'?"

Jack exhaled through his nostrils, thinking hard. This momentary pause would have been noticed by someone paying very close attention but Racetrack wasn't playing with a full deck of cards, so to speak. To be perfectly honest, the kid's head felt fuzzy and he didn't really give a shit about the answer. All he wanted was a good long nap and for Jack to shut the hell up.

"I used to," Jack explained, winking at a woman crossing the street, "when we was kids. Why? Do you?"

"No," Racetrack retorted, scowling with an effort, "I was given a letter for the bastard. Apparently, to some, I look like a fuckin' postman."

This provoked a delayed chuckle. The taller boy smirked, taking care not to look too invested in the conversation. "Who gave it to you?"

"My good friend Chastity," he answered with a dark expression, "that fuckin' bitch. I hate whores."

So the whore's name had been Chastity. Jack was amazed that his friend had revealed so much information without provocation or bribes; with a touch of concern, he realized just how badly his friend's brains must have been rattled.

"Personally, I love 'em," Jack joked, telling himself not to pry too much, to take things slowly even though he wanted to demand answers, "an' they sure seem to love me."

"That's what you pay 'em for," Racetrack pointed out sulkily.

"I might be seein' that kid, Sullivan, pretty soon. You want me to give it to him?"

There, Jack had put it all on the line. He had kept his concern casual, had kept things open and trusting though his fingers ached to take the letter away, by any means necessary. He turned to give his friend a confident smile.

"What's it to you?" Jack's breezy attempt hadn't been enough to fool Racetrack, however dizzy. He narrowed his eyes and fixed his gaze on that stupid translucent smile.

"Nothin' at all," the taller boy replied firmly, his tone leaving no room for further accusations. The conversation ground to a halt as a man in a business suit stopped to buy a paper. When Jack turned back around, he held out a calloused hand with authority, both of his eyebrows raised in a challenging expression.

Racetrack's gaze was swimming. He had used far too much concentration and now he felt it leaving him, felt his own thoughts flooding into the open, into the smog and the dust and oh he was tired, tired of all of this and ready to sleep, ready to forget.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew the letter. Jack took it, reveling at the feel of the cheap lined paper. _Francis Sullivan_ had been written across one side of the wrinkled sheet whereas the contents of the letter had been carelessly scrawled across the back.

Racetrack bent over for a moment, his hands splayed on his knees.

"You okay?" Jack asked absently.

In response, Racetrack vomited onto the cobblestones.

Jack sighed. This day just kept getting better and better.

- - - - - -

Patience had never been one of Jack's strong points, but he had managed to suppress the urge to read the letter that Racetrack had finally given to him. He hadn't wanted to draw attention to himself and he wanted no one to ask questions. It would be too dangerous to involve the others.

He lay in his bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Around him he heard the soothing snores of the other newsboys, fast asleep. Mush always murmured whenever he was dreaming; the boy did so now, his words incomprehensible yet soothingly familiar.

Trembling, Jack unfolded the paper. He took care to do so quietly, smoothing out the wrinkles. If he held the letter above his head, he could catch the fading light from the lamppost outside.

With a bit of difficulty, he examined the note. The letter read _Francis Sullivan_ on one side, but he had already seen this; with shaking hands, he flipped the letter, his heart in his throat.

On the other, in spidery scribble, it read:

_Rabbit or rat?_

_Meet me at half past midnight on Wednesday on the second floor of Goldstein's Shoe Cobbler. If you come alone, and bring no weapons, I'll do the same._

There was no signature, but the handwriting was familiar enough to cause the hairs on the back of Jack's neck to rise. Lefty, it seemed, had deigned to write his old drug runner this letter. It was disconcertingly short, but Jack knew that Lefty valued the power of words above all else. He would never lavish a long letter on someone as insignificant as a newsboy.

The first line was particularly concerning. Jack knew what it meant and saw the veiled threat, but he also knew that there was no way to avoid this meeting. To not show up would be to sign away his own life, and perhaps threaten the lives of the newsboys that Lefty knew he now worked amongst.

For some reason, he was oddly flattered that Lefty was paying him this attention. Francis Sullivan had never been important enough to warrant much notice from those who were not his friends.

This unworthy feeling of gratitude made him feel a wretch. He refolded the letter and put it beneath his pillow, holding it loosely in the fingers of one hand. Tomorrow, he would demand answers. Tomorrow, he would decide what to do, and take up the mantle of Jack Kelly once again.

- - - - - -

At this time of morning, the street was filled with the lazy haze of the city and the grayness that settled over every brick, every cobblestone, rendering it all the same shade of nothingness. The setting faded into mere background, and even though the people moving about acted independently, Jack knew that they were all interconnected somehow, knew it in his very bones.

It had been six years since he had dared to set foot so close to Queens. The other newsboys would never have believed that Jack Kelly, fearless cowboy, had avoided any area in New York, much less such an open one. As far as they knew, he had no enemies. As far as they new, the sun shone out of his ass and his connections reached from Manhattan to Brooklyn and beyond.

He had pulled the wool over their eyes for six years. One letter, delivered by a whore, was not going to undo what he had worked so hard to build.

He had worked on this street once. Francis Sullivan had begun as a lowly shoe shine, only seven years old, a cute kid with a dirty rag and a dirtier secret. He did well in the honest trade of shoe shining; however, how he made real money was not so genteel, and certainly not so easy on his conscience.

Jack strode down the street, waiting to be approached. He had changed into his nicest clothes; true, his gray pants were an inch too short, and his vest was extremely snug, but his finest pair of shoes were new and formidable. He looked and felt like someone who could afford to be approached by a dishonest shoe shine.

"Hey, mister!"

The proclamation came from the mouth of a short black kid wearing ripped knickers and a toothy smile. He moved closer, dangling a rag, and asked, "Need a shoe shine?"

"Sure," Jack shrugged, eyeing the kid. He couldn't have been younger than eight years old. He was sturdy looking, well-fed, but had eyes that could have belonged to a much older man. He had seen things, horrible things, and though the kid's smile was wide it did not reach his eyes.

The shoe shine hunkered down and began to work. He was quick and efficient, jabbing away, using an impressively small amount of shoe black to get the job done.

"So," Jack asked with a tight smile that did not betray his anxiety, "you always been left-handed, kid?"

The kid looked upwards, grinning cheekily. "No, mister," he responded smartly, "only for two months."

Ah, this kid was new to the game. However, Jack's inquiry had not been idle curiosity; the phrase he had used was a code for drug runners, and he was immensely thankful that none of the dealers had been creative enough to change it. Lefty controlled the underworld in Queens and Manhattan; anyone who worked independently, in these parts, was either very brave or very stupid. He demanded a large cut of all profits, but every pimp, whore and drug dealer knew that it would be unwise to work alone.

Two months under Lefty's wing may not have been long enough to demand unwavering allegiance. Jack cast a careful eye down the street to ensure that no one was paying an overt amount of attention to their interchange. Drug runners were the lowest of the low and generally did not require ample amounts of supervision. In a typical exchange, the potential purchaser would now demand a specific weight of narcotic and the runner would scamper off or arrange a meeting place for the delivery.

"Got a name?" Jack asked.

"Boots," the kid replied, holding the rag to his heart in a mocking gesture.

Boots? What an uncreative name. Runners generally took shoe shine nicknames if they were afraid of being detected by the police. The braver (or more foolish) runners took the names of quick animals. Stag and Hare were two names so popular that variations based on eye and hair color often had to be added to the front of a name to amend it.

"Ever heard of a kid named Francis Sullivan, Boots?" Jack asked.

"Never," Boots swore.

With a sigh, Jack handed him a quarter. If that was how things were going to be done, then he would expedite the process.

More delicately, and with an expression that would barter no further nonsense, Jack pressed on, "How 'bout a kid called Jackrabbit?"

"I'm still havin' a bit of trouble rememberin'," the kid said craftily, pocketing the quarter and scrunching his face up thoughtfully.

Jack handed him another quarter, frowning warningly.

"Oh! I just remembered!" Boots brightened, standing up to indicate that he had finished the shoe shine job. Even at his full height, he barely reached Jack's chest.

"Well?"

"A kid came 'round askin' about Sullivan," the shoe shine said slowly, his bright eyes hard, "an' wasted my time when I could be runnin'."

That had not been the desired response. Jack reached out to grab the insufferable shoe shine, but the boy moved quickly. He danced backwards, just out of reach.

"You gonna buy anything?" Boots demanded.

Jack sighed. "Not today."

"Then I'll be off," the black boy said with a dramatically flourished bow, stuffing his rag back into his pockets.

"Doan' you say nothin' about this, to anyone."

"Mum's the word, Jackrabbit," Boots called over his shoulder, grinning, already heading down the street, "doan' you remember? I ain't gonna be left-handed forever."

Jack stood and watched the shoe shine go. He hadn't been called Jackrabbit, his runner nickname, in years. To hear it from the lips of some recently left-handed shoe shine was not reassuring.

The first line of the letter thrummed through his entire being.

_Rabbit or rat?_

Jack did not know the answer anymore. Jackrabbit had been a traitor, it was true; but Jack Kelly was no rat, and furthermore, he was a leader. Times had changed and so had he, to the point where his past self was unrecognizable. He would not make the same mistakes again; his childhood had come and gone, and now he was alone, standing in the middle of the street, deserted by even the drug runner that had deigned to speak to him, to cater to his needs, and to his own horror he found himself staring after Boots, needing a fix, wondering if he should go to the second floor of Goldstein's Shoe Cobbler, wondering if that decision would make him a marked man, wondering if there was another way, any way, to save his own hide.

And suddenly, in a stroke of brilliance, he knew what had to be done.

- - - - - -

(**Author's Note: **I'm unhappy with this chapter but I'm not quite sure why. I'm afraid it's a little plot heavy, something that I despise in longer works. Hopefully I haven't put you to sleep!

Thanks for reading. Please comment, I appreciate your insights! Chapter Four will contain intrigue and betrayal….whooo!)


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